


if it's just in your head does it count

by Rigil_Kentauris



Series: Series I [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: M/M, down for editing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-29 03:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16256135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigil_Kentauris/pseuds/Rigil_Kentauris
Summary: series I'd because id like to edit this majorly before its workable-oh boy this underwent only the minor-est of edits i just had to get it out of my headanyway ive said it before ill say it again i know three things about hrid: impulsive enough to challenge surtr, tough enough to challenge surtr, and the kind of dude who thinks"hi new allies, your besty is totes probs a traitor unless? its one of you??? anyway hello"is a good ideachp2 is about one paragraph away from being done im hoping posting this will kick brain into gear because OH BOY is head like. "mmmmmm i could write. could do that. or i could not. yes. that one. the second one lets do that"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> series I'd because id like to edit this majorly before its workable  
> -  
> oh boy this underwent only the minor-est of edits i just had to get it out of my head
> 
> anyway ive said it before ill say it again i know three things about hrid: impulsive enough to challenge surtr, tough enough to challenge surtr, and the kind of dude who thinks _"hi new allies, your besty is totes probs a traitor unless? its one of you??? anyway hello"_ is a good idea
> 
> chp2 is about one paragraph away from being done im hoping posting this will kick brain into gear because OH BOY is head like. "mmmmmm i could write. could do that. or i could not. yes. that one. the second one lets do that"

These are the things Hríd knows about Zacharias that no one else knows:

He holds back on every swing. On every, single, one. Even when he thinks he doesn't. Hríd is modest, but he also knows there are few, if any, who can outclass him in the realm of hand to hand combat. _He_ is the one used to holding back.

It takes little to detect it in another.

_'Till first blood,_ Hríd suggests solemnly, in his latest attempt to spur Zacharias into putting his full effort into sparring. It’s on this foolhardy attempt (fifty-one) that he discovers exactly why this is a bad idea. Hríd nicks skin, a thin cut not really worth counting between warriors, he is thinking, when something ignites deep within Zacharias’ unmasked eyes. Zacharias’ next lance strike blurs with the speed of it, connects solidly with the side of Hríd’s armor, and sends him flying halfway across the field to collide finally with the snow and come tumbling to rest against a frozen cropping of ice crystals.

_Oh gods,_ Zacharias says, dashing over. Hríd rolls himself into a sitting position, counting ribs and blinking away a daze. In a moment Zacharias is there as well, checking him over, a hand on his neck checking for pulse, eyes studying his intensely for signs of some complicated Emblian medical term. Zacharias in fact runs through an entire list of incomprehensible Emblian medical words, patting and checking while Hríd dizzily tries to figure out if:

> a) Hríd is much worse at combat than he previously thought, or  
>  b) Zacharias is much better at combat that Hríd had previously thought.

It takes a moment before he realizes Zacharias is apologizing, over and over.

_I’m so sorry,_ he says, _I had thought- I thought I had it under control, I- I’d never- I-_

'It' meaning the curse, presumably. Zacharias' eyes have settled back to their normal radiant dark red color. Hríd snuffs air out through his nose. He shouldn’t laugh, really, but he’s settled on choice B as the explanation for the incident, which means his life has just become a great deal more fun.

He shakes his head clear.

_It’s alright,_ he says, with a smile. _It just means you trust me enough to relax your guard._

Zacharias falls silent.

_I also think,_ Hríd adds, and, well, really, its not _quite_ the same situation as it had been, so…

_I also think I technically won that bout._

Although the cut across Zacharias arm is really so small as to already be healing.

The gods, Hríd thinks, will probably forgive him this small stretch.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until later that Hríd realizes that in the course of running his mouth, he’s figured out another thing no one else knows about Zacharias. He trusts Hríd. Enough to relax his ever-present guard.

That one is a very happy realization indeed.

Hríd looks across the fire to where Zacharias is reading out of his ice tome, and grins.

Well, then.

 

* * *

 

It’s not as if Hríd is _cataloguing_ the things he knows about Zacharias that no one else does. The list is only in his head, its not like he's written it down, because, you know, he's not cataloguing anything, but...but when he realizes a fact fits the category, he feels…

If he’s being honest with himself, which he usually tries to be, he feels a fierce pride.

Not simply that he knows these things, but that he knows _these things_ about _that man_ and no one else in the known universe knows them. Hríd is the sole keeper of these secrets.

Well. Sole keeper excepting the man to which those secrets pertain.

After all, it would hardly be right to keep such important knowledge from its originator.

“You don’t fight to your fullest capacity because you are afraid of yourself,” he helpfully tells Zacharias one day, while the others are practicing.

“Well,” Hríd amends, once Zacharias says nothing, “more accurately, its because you’re terrified of yourself.”

Thus he learns his new fact: Zacharias really does not enjoy having his flaws pointed out to him, which would have been a good thing to know _before_ he’d told the man _you have a tendency to run away from your problems, which will rarely improve those problems_ (though it did finally explain the poor reception Hríd had gotten from that particular bit of helpful advice).

Hríd summarizes all of this more charitably under ‘Zacharias does not like learning secrets about himself’.

Perhaps its because of the lies. There are only so many lies a person can tell, Hríd reasons, before they start to forget whats true.

Especially when, Hríd infers, there is a voice in your head lying to you all the time on top of everything else.

Hríd very much wants to ask about that but very much understands that such a question would likely be the end of his association with the prince.

Only likely.

Only...possibly.

The impulse combined with the curiosity is too much.

 

Perhaps there is a better time to ask than when Zacharias is brushing his horse not for maintenance but for fun. Perhaps a better time, too, than when he has his deadly ice book in a pouch buckled loosely around his waist. Perhaps a better time, as well, than when he looks, for lack of a better word, relaxed. As much he is capable of looking. At least these days. Perhaps in other days-

“Hríd,” Zacharias greets cordially, his low voice softened by the calming distraction that taking care of his horse is serving. His voice sends the same happy note through Hríd that it usually does, which is why he in turn is distracted, which is why-

“When the voice tells you to kill, does it say how?” Hríd bursts out, feeling the disaster in motion but not – really – being able to stop it from happening.

Hríd winces hard. Zacharias doesn’t freeze, quite, because he is still moving, but the lines in his body have gone both taut, and liquid. A hard, shifting, dangerous motion, as he looks back over his shoulder at Hríd.

“What,” he says, flatly.

“Ah. When, ah...does it...advice?”

Zacharias’ eyes are very, _very_ dark.

Hríd’s not quite sure what to add on, but that doesn’t seem to matter to his mouth.

“As in, ah… Battle tactics. Or...per se...strategy?”

Even Zacharias horse seems ready to stomp Hríd into a small, painful recollection of a body. No horse should be that motionless. No horse should be able to stare at someone like that. It’s eerie.

“You want to know _,”_ Zacharias says slowly, “whether the curse that has ruined my life and made me seek to kill my closest loved ones in horrible and nightmare-inducing ways gives me, on the side, tactical and or strategic advice.”

“Ah,” Hríd says again. “Is this the part where you laugh?”

“No,” Zacharias says. “No, it’s not.”

“Okay,” Hríd says. “Okay then. Yes.”

Hríd finds somewhere that, sincerest apologies, but he simply _has_ to be very quickly after that.

He’s got a lot of practice with that particular skill.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stylistic consistency whats that i-

Nights are cold in Nifl, yes, but not usually this brisk. True, Hríd has always runs warmer than his siblings, or maybe that’s just because he’s used to running around more than his siblings. He can hardly remember a time when he _wasn’t_ moving, or training, or practicing or fighting.

Or insulting foreign dignitaries.

He sighs, the air freezing cold on his lips. He’s really stuck his foot in it this time.

There’s just so much about Zacharias that he doesn’t _understand._ And he wants to. Gods, how he wants to. He kicks some snow around, and leans back against the pure clear crystalline outcropping of ice crystals sticking out of the snow.

It’s just that he doesn’t understand. Zacharias smiles like the sun, but never looks happy. He’s cursed to loathe his friends, so he leaves, because he loves them. He always brings extra sugar cubes to his horse, and sits for endless teatimes with his sister, and goes out of his way make new heroes feel welcome, and a dozen and dozen other things beside, and yet, he claims that everyone around him would be infinitely better without him in their lives.

He leans into sword strikes rather than dodging them, Hríd reflects, using his lance more as a shield than anything else. Yet he’s spent the greater part of his life running away from things.

Another person, perpetually in motion.

A blush creeps onto Hrid's face, with the unintended question of if Zacharias, too, runs warmer than other people.

No. Not the time think about that. Hríd is no fool; he does understand the danger an Emblian, any Emblian, under the control of the curse might pose to the Askrans, but…

Well.

_He’s no danger to_ me, Hríd thinks smugly, then feels terrible about it. It's mean of him. Besides. It’s not _entirely_ true. Zacharias sent him flying halfway across the practice ring, without breaking much of a sweat.

More heat prickles at his cheeks. He bites the inside of his lip.

Zacharias is much stronger than Hríd had suspected.

_No,_ he thinks to himself. He’s not going to let himself think thoughts of that nature. Of the ‘Zacharias pinning Hríd against a wall and-

No, no, _no._ Not today. Not any day.

Besides, Hríd ponders. He doesn’t even know if Zacharias would be into that-

Hríd is scrambling to his feet almost before he hears, his _usually_ fine-tuned situational awareness having a laugh at his expense.

“Hríd,” Zacharias greets neutrally. He’s in full uniform, plus the rugged samasthwool cloak the Niflians had insisted every OoH member wear after a particularly embarrassing snowstorm had landed a good deal of them in the healer’s tent, half-dressed and suffering from severe hypothermia.

Not that such a fate would _ever_ befall Zacharias, so long as Hríd was around.

Well, the hypothermia part. Hríd wasn’t opposed, necessarily, to the half-dressed part.

Not that that’s what he should be thinking about right now.

Not with Zacharias staring at him.

“Ah,” Hríd says, blushing deeply and hoping to gods it wasn’t showing and knowing it almost certainly was. “Greeted. Greetings, I mean. Greetings back to you. As well.”

The corner of Zacharias’ lips quirk upwards ever so slightly. Hríd forces himself to concentrate on the fact that they are tinged with the faintest hint of ‘it’s too godsdamn cold outside’ blue.

He unhooks his cloak with hasty, uncoordinated motions. He can almost feel Zacharias’ eyes studying him.

Hríd is unbalanced. And he has no reason to be, he reminds himself. This is his friend. He’s got no reason to be like this. He takes a deep breath, and hands over his cloak before dropping back down to his meditative position in the snow, back against the ice.

Then he remembers he’s in horrible trouble with Zacharias, and has _ever_ y reason to be nervous.

“Are you alright?” Zacharias asks, settling down into the snow next to Hríd.

Hríd frowns. “You shouldn’t do that,” he says, instead. The Askrans chronically underestimate the danger of the temperature of the snow.

“I trust you won’t let anything happen to me.”

An odd thread runs through the other man’s voice. Hríd looks over sharply. Zacharias is still smiling faintly, staring off into the distance.

With anyone else, Hríd would be beginning to suspect even further trouble. With him, though…

Zacharias glances back at Hríd. As usual, the sadness in his eyes in no way matches the appearance of any kind of smile on his face. He looks down at the ground quickly, then resumes staring off.

This time, with no smile of any kind.

He breath comes out in even, vapor puffs.

“My father,” he says, without prompting. “was a good man.”

“The emperor?” Hríd says, with more than a little surprise. “Of Embla?”

Zacharias snorts. Apparently, this is amusing to him.

“Yes, that one. The one,” Zacharias continues, before Hríd can step into anything else, “who murdered dozens, ordered the death of thousands more, tortured endless Askrans for entertainment, and left my mother to die alone, among other things. That one.”

And there’s really nothing to say to that, so Hríd busies himself with mussing up the snow at his side.

Zacharias leans his head back against the cold, blue ice.

“ _Was_ a good man,” he emphasizes softly. “When I was younger, he used to sing to me. Lullabies, nursery rhymes...did your parents sing to you?”

Hríd shakes his head, then notices that Zacharias is looking up at the stars which poke through the cloud cover, here and there.

“No,” Hríd says instead. “I was raised more by my nursemaids, and governesses, and...well, you understand.”

“I don’t,” Zacharias tells him, and that, too, is a surprise. “My father raised me. Couldn’t sing worth a damn. And he had never _truly_ known his parents, or so much as seen a child reared, had the whole empire breathing down his neck because I had even been born in the first place, but he was determined. He loved me, and he loved my mother, and... and he was cursed.”

Zacharias hands are loose in his lap. The urge to grab one is strong, but he looks like he's asleep while awake.

“Embla is a closed nation in many ways." The words are detached, but precise. “Economically, physically. Linguistically. After all, the Askrans hardly even knew _I_ existed, and I was the scandal of the decade. There was so much they never knew about...our history, our science. Programs of medicine, frontiers of exploration into technology. The education and literacy drives. Agricultural revolutions. Have you ever heard Kiran talk about something called a _vaccine?"_

Once. When they tripped on a rusty sword in a cave and immediately began cursing up a storm about _tetanus._ “I understand the concept, yes.”

“Did you know, that while my father was emperor, he instituted the academic programme that created a vaccine for smallspots, and then he made it mandatory across Embla proper? It never made it to the outlying regions, but...”

“Smallspots,” Hríd inquires, “can be easily cured by-”

“Healers,” Zacharias answers, picking up on his meaning already. He smiles, wryly. “Of course. But what about when there are no healers? When they’ve all been called away to battle? What about when the healers are overtaxed and at capacity with knights who are dying of complex, terrible stab wounds and magical burns and a litany of other gruesome battle wounds? Embla was always at war, after all. A nation of conquerors.”

He sighs. “My father molded himself into a good man, for all the wrong reasons. And then the curse hit, and he became a bad man for all the wrong reasons. He loved me, until he didn’t. He loved my mother, until he couldn’t stand the sight of her. He believed he could help this world and change it for the better, until a voice in his head told him to kill everything in sight and after that, that’s all he ever was. Tell me, Hríd, and tell me honestly: until a few minutes ago, had you ever thought about what my father was like before the curse took over? Did you even think there _was_ a before?”

Zacharias finally looks over at Hríd again. His jaw is tight, but his shoulders are deceptively relaxed. He smiles, but there is pure steel in his eyes.

“You’re not your father,” Hríd declares.

Test failed. Something flickers across Zacharias’ face, a spasm of tension darting through his frame.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says evenly, and starts to stand.

“You’re _not_ him!” Hríd exclaims, shooting out a hand to finally grab Zacharias’. He’s overestimated how stable Zacharias is right now, because even the small force of Hríd catching hold of his knocks him back down into the snow next to Hríd, bonking his head against the ice.

_Shit,_ thinks Hríd succinctly, but Zacharias just pauses, blinks, then laughs, and laughs and laughs and laughs until he’s crying instead, sobs wrenching his body. Hríd has to work hard to pull him out of the snow, and cradle him instead. Zacharias squeezes Hríd harder than he could have imagined, a vice-like pressure that snaps around his ribs, and hurts, a little. Less than Zacharias must be hurting right now, Hríd reasons, so he pushes the twinges away and holds Zacharias tight, one hand around his waist and one reaching up to touch the back of Zacharias’s hair and help him bury his head deeper into the crook of Hríd’s neck. An unvocalized invitation, he hopes, to draw as much comfort from him as can be had.

“He killed my mother,” Zacharias chokes out, in between breaths. “He killed my mother, and I- and Veronica-”

Hríd tightens his grip on Zacharias. “I know,” he says.

“I can’t make it right,” Zacharias whispers. “I can’t- I can’t, I-”

“I know,” Hríd repeats, even though he doesn’t know. “I know.”

Zacharias manages another shuddered _I can’t_ before he returns to crying. Some of his tears catch on Hríd’s scale armor and roll off, but others get caught up in the fabric of Hríd’s uniform, the damp patches growing frigid in the night air.

It takes a long time for Zacharias’ ragged, uneven breathing to return to something approaching normal. The desperate hold he has on Hríd eases, somewhat.

“My apologies,” he eventually says, voice muffled by the sincerity with which he is still cuddled in Hríd’s arms.

He makes no move to untangle himself.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Don’t I?”

Hríd takes advantage of Zacharias’ easing deathgrip to push a few more centimeters of space between their two bodies, just enough so he can catch Zacharias’ resplendent eyes flicking up to look at Hríd. The dark, melted, red citrine of his irises matched only by the bloodshot red of the rest of his eyes. Emblian through and through.

“I don’t think they’d call it a curse if it brought _good_ things,” Hríd answers.

Zacharias’ eyes tighten as another laugh slips out of him. It's not hysteric, like earlier, or gallows-sardonic, like the other things he usually seems to find funny.

It, in all honestly, sounds a little relieved.

“So _this_ is the part where you laugh,” Hríd says, serious.

And that just makes him laugh more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so while writing this i was thinking what if the emblians were actually like super fuckng superb at healing because like. the royals keep pouring money and resources into trying to solve the cure or perhaps its sideeffects. more than any other nation would bother with, given the fact that regular healers can handle most everything that is regularly needed. i think that would be neat.  
> also brave!Veronica is a healer so. tie in!  
> anyway thats where all that came from


End file.
